


Not for lack of trying

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ami's life at Castle Darry is disappointing, with one exception.  </p>
<p>Written for the 11th round of got_exchange on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not for lack of trying

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is set slightly before Jaime Lannister's visit in A Feast For Crows.

Walda wrote on scented paper, her girlish scrawl all loops and whorls across the pages. Ami watched her mother’s face as she read, her sharp eyes reading between the lines of chatty asides and giggly glosses on her new husband and their grand romance, probing for some practical nugget of information. Usually, Mother’s searches were fruitless, as her younger sister was more apt to describe the ruffles on a new gown or how Roose took his hippocras than anything truly useful. Ami enjoyed the letters, though. She did not begrudge Walda her happiness. It had been long in coming, and better her sent off with a hard-faced, cold-hearted northerner than Ami. 

“Your sister is with child.” Mother’s voice was usually well-modulated, lady-like, but she could not suppress the pleasure in her tone. 

“I shall send her my congratulations,” Ami said, returning her attention to her embroidery. She’d been decorating a nightshirt for her husband, adorning it with lions that looked less like the ones on his family’s sigil and more like a pair of shaggy goats. Crooked goats, at that. It had been her idea, hoping that a gift intended for the bedroom might turn his thoughts to matters of the flesh rather than matters of the spirit, his seemingly sole preoccupation. 

“As well you should,” Mother said. She let the letter fall to her lap, uninterested in the rest of its contents. “She has done well for herself.” Mother seemed to catch herself, and her tone sharpened. “You have both done well for yourself.” 

Ami did not answer, but continued with her needlework, filling in the lion’s mane with gold-flecked thread. It had been dear, but such things did not concern her anymore. She had no need to count every coin since her wedding. Lancel’s family sat on a fortune greater than any in Westeros. And his cousin sat on the Iron Throne. She grinned to herself, but it did not escape her mother’s notice. 

“Yes, both,” Mother continued, as if she were reading Ami’s thoughts. “One of my daughters may well birth a new warden of the north…and my other so near to a king’s blood.” She paused, looking at Ami. It was a meaningful look, and one that she was well-used to. “And wife to a Lannister, in a marriage that is still without issue.”

She knew that the subject would come up. It was unavoidable considering the contents of her sister’s letter, considering how closely watched she and her husband were, and she knew what was said about them both. 

_He does not share a bed with his wife._

_How can he, when she is far more occupied with making eyes at every jumped-up lord who walks through the door?_

_He’d rather the Mother, Maiden, and Crone than his lady wife._

_Freys are supposed to be fertile, but poor thing, she never has a chance to prove it._

Much of it was servants’ gossip, and should be beneath her notice, but when it was thrown in front of her face, it was not so easy to ignore. She was still unsure about her marriage, willing to make the effort as she had always been taught, to keep the household in order, and to provide a sweet helpmate to the man who she’d been joined to, but Ami’s fancies had turned more to thoughts of being swept off of her feet, and not to hurried ceremonies where cloaks were exchanged, an uninterested husband, his father more a marriage broker than a kindly new relation. 

She sighed. 

“I have tried,” Ami mumbled, remembering her bungled attempts to catch Lancel’s eye at table during their wedding feast, lacing her gown as loosely as she dared so that she nearly fell out of it, leaning over for this or that, brushing his sleeve with her bare arm. But he had paid no mind to his lady wife, eyes downcast as though he were still at prayer, even though the devotion preceding the meal had been almost comically long. He barely seemed to notice his food, let alone anything else. That night she had lain alone, knees pressed together, bored and exasperated, twisting about in her empty marriage bed until morning. 

“Try harder, child,” her mother said, but her voice was more sardonic than cruel. “This is Castle Darry, not Casterly Rock. He is more visitor than lord here, but you would do well to provide him with an heir. Perhaps a son would distract him from his gods.” She paused. “And distract you, perhaps, from your grief.” Mother still wore widows’ weeds as custom dictated, although her eyes had been dry since she’d heard the dreadful news about Father. Ami had wept though, great ugly sobs.

Ami sighed, realizing that her mother had a point. A child would be a welcome distraction. She abandoned her needlework, reaching for a book of poetry. Perhaps love songs and knights gallant would inspire her more than heraldry. “I’ll try again tonight.” 

Her mother smiled, returning to Walda’s letter.

She went to the sept that evening, clad in nothing save her nightdress, bare feet freezing, cheeks flushed as she made her way to the small peaked building in the shadow of Castle Darry. Lancel was alone there, surrounded by nothing save the rough wooden carvings that represented each facet of his beloved god, and candles that were barely more than piles of wax guttering and flickering around him. He knelt before the Warrior, his bent figure and straggly half-shorn hair far from the graceful posture and spun gold that it had once been. Ami could not help but contrast the god’s well-muscled arms and stern visage with the wasted form and supplicating expression of her husband. 

He did not notice her approach, for his eyes were tightly closed in prayer, and she easily made her way into the center of the seven small altars. It wasn’t until she laid a hand on his shoulder that he broke his vigil, eyes reddened by lack of sleep and too much smoke squinting to make out her face. 

“You have come to pray with me?” Lancel asked, his voice hoarse from lack of use. She could only stand there as he pulled her down, fingers like ice against her half-bared arm, until she knelt uncomfortably beside him. Ami’s first instinct was to pull away, to find a more comfortable position where her knees were not cut by the uneven flagstones that made up the sept’s floor, but she bit back the urge and submitted with a pained smile. 

“If you like, my lord,” Ami replied, her voice awkwardly loud. She was past blushing, but still winced as her words echoed round the carvings. This was not her place. 

“Then join me,” Lancel continued. Ami bowed her head as he began his prayers, a long-winded litany to the Warrior to strengthen both their resolves to protect and defend the Faith, and when he pivoted, gently turning her as well, to face the Smith, he continued, asking the god to guide their hands as they forged new life in the Faith of the Seven. 

Ami rolled her eyes at that, knowing that he’d never notice in the low light. She had never paid much mind to religion, making the necessary gestures over the years, but life at the Twins was more cutthroat than devout, and she did not place much stock in carvings and statues. She had tried, a bit at first, knowing how much store Lancel had set by his faith since the war had taken its toll on him, but she felt nothing in this place. Nothing but her own physical discomfort from the hard floor and cold drafts, and her own frustration with a distant husband and a rushed, unconsummated marriage. 

It had been nothing like her first. 

Pate had been a fool, too young, and nothing more than a jumped-up hedge knight, but he’d been hers, a brave boy who’d lifted her in his arms and who’d bedded her with the same enthusiasm that he applied in the field. Ami had always been a romantic girl, head full of tales of knights and maidens. How she’d grinned from ear to ear when he’d tied her favor around his arm, and how her heart had sung when he pledged to bring her the Mountain’s head. One day songs would be sung of the brave knight Pate and his fair lady Amerei. It had been a foolhardy vow, however, and his broken body had attested to that when it had been returned after his run-in with Clegane. She had wept for him, still wept at times at the memory of his eager kisses and the way that he’d taken her, again and again, his hands clumsy yet oh so eager.

She’d loved how tightly he’d held her. So much better than the grooms she’d lain with, who only took their pleasure and blamed her when they’d all been caught at it. Or her cousin Black Walder, who’d grunted and rutted and left her unsatisfied.

When Lancel had finished his addresses to the gods, he bowed his head, silent once more, and she took the opportunity to attempt what she’d come to do, at last. It seemed as though they’d been kneeling for hours. 

Turning toward Lancel, she placed her hand on his thigh, grimacing at the rough homespun of his ragged tunic. “Lord husband,” Ami said, her voice teasing. “Lancel,” she continued, drawing out the syllables of his name. She drew her hand upward when her initial approach gathered no response. “I think that you’d find my bed a nicer place than the Sept.” She grinned but it faded when he shook his head, hand gently moving hers away. 

“Poor child,” Lancel said, smiling sadly. “It is not your bed that I seek. You would do better to find comfort elsewhere.”

Ami frowned. “You don’t want me?” she said. It was a disappointment, had been from the start, but she had not thought that he disliked her so. Thoughts of Pate, poor thing, her family, the way her grandfather had smirked when she’d been chosen for Lancel, and memories of how he’d not even bothered to look at her when they’d been first thrust together by his father filled her head. She repeated her words, only this time they sounded ragged. “But I’m your wife. We took vows.” 

“Vows that were the will of men, and not of the gods,” Lancel replied. “Go. Be happy.” He pressed his lips to her brow. It was the first time that he’d embraced her in their brief marriage. 

She stumbled out of the Sept, torn between rage and tears. All she’d wanted was to be the lady of Castle Darry, to smile and wear pretty gowns, to dance and to laugh, to find pleasure, something that had been wanting during her girlhood at the Twins, where everyone looked over their shoulder, where everyone had designs and ambitions, and where too often, blood was shed. And after what had happened to her father, she’d thought that things would be different here, that she wouldn’t have to think about things like death and regret. Hot tears filled her eyes, mostly from frustration and confusion, and she stormed into the castle, holding herself tightly. 

She’d been a fool to even try.

“My lady should not be roaming the grounds unattended,” said a harsh voice from the shadows. 

Ami started, frightened at first, but when he stepped into the light, she recognized his face. He’d been pointed out to her by her goodfather Kevan when first she’d come to Castle Darry, one of the Plumms. This one, Harwyn, had been credited with routing the outlaws who’d seized it during the fighting. She smiled courteously despite everything, remembering her manners. “You are good to worry, Ser,” she said softly, stepping into the light, standing beneath a wall sconce in the entranceway. 

Plumm shifted his weight, leaning on a large warhammer. Ami took him in. He was different from her Lancel in every way, and did not fear to meet her gaze like most of the other lesser lords who flocked to Darry to ply its recent inhabitants with courtesies. He took her in, seemingly noticing everything, eyes passing from the tears that were still drying on her cheeks, to the outline of her figure beneath her flimsy gown, to her bare feet, red from the cold.

“Am I?” he said. “Seems to me that Lord Lancel should keep his wife closer. There are outlaws close by, and they’d like nothing more than a pretty young thing. You’d make a fine hostage,” he said darkly, “or a pleasant bedwarmer.” 

“Don’t speak to me of outlaws,” Ami whispered. She started to walk past him, but Plumm moved in front of her, blocking her way. He was smirking.

“Dondarrion roams the Trident,” he said. “Too cocksure by far, he is. Him and his Brotherhood.” Plumm’s voice was all sneers. “Hanging Freys up and down the river.” Ami gasped and he chuckled at her reaction. “We heard what happened to your father. And that poor fool Pimple. A bad business.” 

“A bad business,” Ami repeated slowly. “I wish-“ she began, but trailed off, turning to Plumm. “But you wouldn’t really let them get in, would you?” 

He shook his head. “Bunch of ragtags. They wouldn’t get past my men. And we’ve cleaned them out once before, making things nice for your ladyship. I wouldn’t trouble myself.”

An idea occurred to her. Perhaps she could salvage some pleasure out of things yet. And Harwyn Plumm had shown concern, had wanted to protect her, something that her husband could barely muster. “Will you escort me back to my chamber?” she asked, softening her voice. “You are right, Ser, it is not safe, and the castle is so dark.” 

She wasn’t sure, but she thought that his expression shifted to a grim approval, his mouth quirking at the idea.

The next day, she was silent on the subject of heirs and husbands, and decided to cast aside her old project, taking instead a piece of linen and some purple thread. Her mother said nothing but gave her a curious look as Ami traced the outlines of three round fruits, a pleased expression on her face.


End file.
